


Dreams Of Gold

by Spiced_Wine



Category: Lord of the Rings (Novel)
Genre: Erotica, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas and Vanimórë, son of Sauron, meet before Legolas leaves for the Council of Elrond. A crossover between <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel">Esteliel</a>'s Cuil Eden universe and the Dark Prince universe.</p><p>
  <i>"Dance with me," said the warrior, "The dance of the blades, sweet prince."</i>
</p><p>Please heed the rating and tags. This story contains M/M slash and graphic sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Might Have Been

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> Esteliel wrote such a super PWP [Laurië Celvarmólet - Two Golden Pets](http://www.lotrfanfiction.com/viewstory.php?sid=11330&index=1) of Vanimórë, Legolas and Elgalad, that I wanted to thank her. I love her Legolas and her AU, and find that whenever I have written of Legolas, I like to imagine him as having the same history as hers. This ficlet is a merging of Esteliel's [Anestel Universe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/548) (with Esteliel's permission) with my Dark Prince universe. If it were in Dark Prince it would be the unwritten chapter between Chapter 53, The Final Warning, and Chapter 54, Before The Gulf Of Doom.
> 
> Disclaimer: I merely borrow from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien.My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original character of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkiens universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell. 2004-2009 and may not be used without my permission, save by the authors named on my bio, of whom Esteliel is one.

 

  
**Disclaimer:**

I merely borrow from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien.My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original character of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkiens universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell. 2004-2011. Ask if you wish to use. :)

  
Legolas and Vanimórë meet before Legolas leaves for the Council of Elrond.

  
~~~

  
_"Dance with me," said the warrior, "The dance of the blades, sweet prince."_

~~~

  
**Part One: What Might Have Been.**

~ "I will go, father. There is time."

Thranduil regarded his son for a moment. "I would have suggested it, but you leave soon for Imladris."

"I know the folk of Lake Town, and for this...I think the news should come from one of us, it is more courteous."

"I agree." The King sat back in his chair. "That town is so vulnerable, and they know it. If an attack comes we will have no aid to spare them. It could be afire within half a morning." He rubbed his temples, then leaned forward, dripped hot wax onto the vellum and sealed it. "I have given assurance that any refugees will be helped - if we are in the position to give help."

Legolas took the proferred letter. "I will remain one night, father."

On his way from the king's chambers he stopped before a door and knocked. It was opened by Elgalad, his fair face troubled. His one pack was already buckled for travel.

"I am taking a message to Lake Town for my father." Legolas told him. "I will not be gone long, and we leave when I return." At the uncertain nod, he murmured. "This must be done, Meluion."

"I k-know, but..." The grey eyes were dilated, distant. "I w-want to be with h-him but I feel a c-craven to leave...!"

"You are no craven, it is better for Mirkwood if your Lord does not lead the attack against it," Legolas touched the pale cheek. "You know that is true. As for what follows – the time has not yet come to think of it. While I am gone, speak to my father, He will miss you."

"And I him. Both of thee." Elgalad had never lost the antique manner of speech taught him long ago, perhaps he held to it because it reminded him of his guardian, although things learned in childhood remained with one always, Legolas knew that well.

Elgalad was torn. He loved Mirkwood, had fought for it, bled for it; his loyalty was absolute, yet his love for his Lord also lay in his heart like a little flame which would not go out, and he would follow that light into Mordor itself, Legolas had no doubt. And that too, he understood.

  
~~~

  
Night over Lake-Town. The day had been a rough, with a warm, wild wind out of the south, ruffling the cool waters, throwing high, piled clouds across the autumn skies. At dusk it strengthened and the flames leaped in the fire, the candles quivered, as Legolas sat in the room of the house where such deputations to the town lodged.

"What advice would you give me, Prince Legolas?" the master had asked that evening, his face grave.

"Perhaps the women and children, the elderly could go to Erebor. It is a refuge, not easy to take."

"I will think on it, we trade with the dwarves, but many will not go. Would you leave those you loved to go to a place of safety?"

Legolas had shaken his head. His reply had been a quiet: "No I would not."

"There have been other rumors, coming up the trade road from Dorwinion. They say vast armies are on the move in the east. And where can any-one go to be safe if the Black Land goes to war?"

Now, Legolas tossed a pine-cone into the fire. It burned up with a sharp, resinous scent. The heat flared over his eyes, his face and he drew away from it, restless, walking to the window casement and pushing it open. The wind smelled of darkness and woodsmoke and the ending of summer.

_ Where can any-one go to be safe? _

The Elves could leave, but he knew Thranduil would not. His father would rather die defending his realm than turn his face to the western shores. He was born of Middle-earth, rooted and intertwined deeply with his forest, it was his place more surely than the beeches and oaks which had grown from saplings to ancient giants around him. It was Legolas' home too, although it was as if his roots had been put down in two places, the land of his birth and the high, hidden valley of Imladris. Thranduil seemed to accept that now. But both Mirkwood and Imladris likewise bound Legolas to Middle-earth and there were others in Imladris who were not willing to leave, who would remain to defend their home and people and die at the last...

The thought could not be borne. He shook his head hard, as if throwing the images of death from him, unraveling the braids, let the wind run soft fingers through his hair. It had been wet when he bound it, and he knew that now it would show soft waves, which thought brought a smile to his lips. Once, a long time ago, it would not have pleased him at all, would have caused him  humiliation.

The thoughts which proceeded from that, as if carried on the night from the west, brought with them the familiar, yet always intense thrill which never palled. Many years ago, he had asked why this should be. _ "I always believed such things passed after some time," _ he had said, puzzled. And the one he asked had laughed, a little mocking, perhaps with a touch of anger and answered: "So we came to believe. It is not so. Why should it be?"&lt;/i&gt;

The vividness of memory stirred him to arousal. It needed no more than that for him to re-live countless times of possession, rapture. And that lead his thoughts back to the one who was supposed to leave Middle-earth, be escorted to the Havens and to take ship, to leave behind some-one he loved and desired and could not have. To the depths of his heart, Legolas pitied Elgalad. He could see himself so clearly in the younger Elf, yet Elgalad had no such memories of his strange guardian to comfort him. He never would have, only a dream that could not be fulfilled. Legolas knew those expressions of yearning, of hunger that he sometimes saw in Elgalad. The rain-grey eyes would become distant, until something brought him back and only the wound remained in them.

_ They could not make me go, _ Legolas thought. _ And I have grave doubts Elgalad will ever set foot on one of the white ships. _

Lost in thoughts which balanced between desire and gravity, he started as two hands appeared over wooden sill of the window. _ Thief._ was the first word that came to mind, and he was astounded that any would have the gall to attempt to rob the guest-house of the Elves when some-one was in the room. The thief was either over-bold or foolish, but one good push with his foot would send the hapless man to the ground below, bruised but wiser. Legolas raised his foot, prepared to kick out and froze as a face appeared over the sill, the *thief* pulling himself up in effortless silence. He paused, holding himself, his breathing even as he murmured.  
"May I come in, Legolas Thranduilion?"

Elgalad's erstwhile guardian climbed into the room noiselessly. He wore a long dark cloak, perhaps to pass unnoticed in the streets, but as he let it fall, Legolas saw drops of water stream from his long hair; the black doeskin breeches and vest were wet.

"Did you swim from the shore?" It was the only thing he could think to say and he realized he was peculiarly unsurprised, as if he had expected this meeting.

"They have posted guards on the bridge. I did not wish to be questioned, after all, am I not the enemy?" One brow rose wryly.

"The enemy who told Elgalad that you would be ordered to lead an attack upon our kingdom." Legolas' eyes narrowed. "You knew he would tell us."

"Elgalad said he would give his life for his kingdom, of course I knew. He has...very deep loyalties."

"Yes."

The other man moved closer to the fire, and his hands rose to unloose the wet hair which was drawn up high on his head, reminding Legolas of the tail of a hot-blooded stallion. A spatter of water hissed in the flames as long white fingers drew through it. The light traced the barbaric tattoos which sliced and curved up his arms, vanishing into under the soft leather of the tunic. He looked relaxed, but there was nothing negligent about the hard muscle under the skin, the sword harness from which jutted two hilts, the thigh sheath in which rested a dagger. The twin blades looked somewhat longer than the knives Legolas used, but shorter than the Noldoli greatswords he had seen wielded in Imladris.

Questions knocked imperatively at his lips. He was, after all, the son of Thranduil, it behooved him to learn as much as he could from this enigmatic servant of the Dark. That thought brought an incongruous choke of laughter into his mind. He was entertaining some-one who was a slave and warrior of Sauron and he was not concerned? But he did owe his life to this one, as did Elgalad and possibly even Mirkwood and other realms, if what he had told Elgalad were true.  
He realized that he had not been answered. He poured wine into a copper pan and pushed the crane over the fire to heat, wet black hair showered over his arm and was drawn back. With what he knew was foolhardy trust, he did not turn until the wine was hot and served in two goblets.

The man was watching him with a look of elusive self mockery, moonlight and shadow, black hair tossed back in a wild mane which cloaked him to his knees, skin white as frost.

"What dost thou wish to know?" He took the wine and drank.

  
~~~

  
Vanimórë watched Legolas, as the wood-Elf watched him, sensing the turmoil of questions in his mind. His own trod the paths of memory back to years long ago, when he had been on a very different mission in these parts, tracking a band of orcs into the forest.* In those years, when he ruled Sud Sicanna, deathless and permanent as the desert sand, such journeys had been for himself alone. He had been as free then as he had ever been, or ever would be. And that freedom had allowed him to come upon a young, intrepid and foolish (for the young are always foolish) Elf in the hands of orcs who would have raped him to death and then devoured his still-warm flesh. Such a temptation that had been...even poisoned with spider-venom the young wood-Elf had been pearl and gold beauty. Thus Vanimórë had pleased himself in killing the orcs and served the realm of Mirkwood in carrying one of the blood-royal to a safe place.

He had seen the wood-Elves in the battle of the Dagorlad, lightly armed and deadly, dying in multitudes with fierce fatalism, and he had recognized the insignia embroidered upon the tunic of the young Elf. But prince or the lowest servant, Vanimórë would not have seen any Elf taken by orcs for their savage pleasures. He knew what they would do, it was a punishment he had experienced himself, but he could not afford the luxury of dying of it.

And yet for a time, as he carried the wounded prince from the dark places towards the clean, wholesome regions where the Elves dwelled, he had imagined turning, retracing his steps. The potion he had used would negate the effects of the poison, the Elf would recover and for so long as Sauron was absent he would have a golden pet, an Elf, beautiful and willing.

And that was where his imaginings came up against the iron wall of his pragmatism. Certainly he could coerce this young beauty south, a long, long journey into regions of heat and sand, to his city of spice and gold and incense and the Elf would try and escape, would hate his captor. He was not made for gilded palaces, and the stone lace of screens and whispered secrets; his soul would rebel. In the end, perhaps it had been that consideration which stayed Vanimórë's hand. He had enjoyed Elves twice, but both had been utterly different to this lithe, fair youth, and very much older; Valinor-born Eldar who had been tempered by life and loss and grief. This one was not, it would make him easy to train, but in his heart he would yearn for his freedom, his people, and come to loathe the one who had reft him of liberty. He was a child of the deep forests, how could Vanimórë, himself a slave, force that upon another?

So he had left the young prince Elf with a stolen, rueful kiss and many years after had watched while an orphaned Elfling grew up under his care to look very much as Legolas had, the same high boned faced and haunting eyes. Vanimórë had turned from Elgalad too, placing him in the care of Legolas, believing that he would be well looked after.

Both were grown now, fulfilling their promise, tall and slender and beautiful, with the shoulders of archers, the poise of warriors, yet something in their expressions, perhaps a kindness which had it's roots in a deep wellspring of the soul, remained untouched by the years.

The fire, or perhaps his unblinking stare touched colour into Legolas' milk-white cheeks and he said, "Did you tell Elgalad the truth?"

"Yes." the reply was flat. "The only way to protect him, or any of thee, is for him to be gone from Mirkwood." He put the goblet down, unbuckled his harness and began to unlace his tunic. "I can hide nothing from Sauron. He knows I care for Elgalad. It would please him to bring Elgalad to Mordor, to kill him before my eyes. Or force me to harm him."

"You could not hurt him." Legolas sounded certain, but his eyes flicked, with some bewilderment, to the loosened vest that Vanimórë pulled off.

"I have fought it," he agreed. "Therefore I believe that Sauron would like to kill Elgalad himself. I would lead the attack on your people, but those commanders under me would have orders to take him alive. Perhaps I could kill them all, perhaps they would have orders to slay him if I attempted it –  and I would probably let them, in that event. Dost thou mind," he added, "if I dry my clothes? So very uncomfortable."

"Please," Legolas gestured and Vanimórë nodded thanks and sat down to pull of his boots.

  
~~~

  
The boots were superbly tailored, which seemed an odd thing to notice or see in this strange man, although perhaps no odder than he himself was. They fitted so tightly that his breeches reached only to mid-calf and Legolas found himself offering his services to pull them off and set them beside the fire. The room began to fill with the hot-horse scent of damp leather, mingled with something else, a richer perfume. It took a moment for Legolas to place it, for it was a rare scent in the north, but sometimes came up the trade roads to Lake Town: Sandalwood. It made him think, although he had never seen such things, of brassy skies, the sun leaching scent from walled gardens of heavy roses, and bodies intertwined in lust. He felt himself flush and harden as the warrior rose to unbutton the stamped-steel buttons of his wet breeches. He turned away as he did so, and as he peeled them off, the black hair effectively curtained him. He undressed without embarrassment, as if he had disrobed before others so many times that he was unconscious of it. But Legolas was uncomfortable, the lingering visions, rich as Dorwinion wine, of one not so dissimilar to this, were still a weight within him, stiffening him.

Not dissimilar? The thought might have seemed ludicrous, but here was the pride and power of the Noldor seen through smoky glass, half tamed by servitude or long self control, but only tame as a wolf is tame when chained and behind bars.

"Is it true you will not lead an attack on Mirkwood now?" Legolas heard the catch of his own breath. The room seemed too small, to have somehow been taken over by the stranger, who shook out his breeches briskly, without turning.

"He will use me for some other task." The reply sounded indifferent. "Mordor is not just Mordor, _He_ sits at the heart of a web spun across the south and east of the world. The call has gone out, the armies move in answer. That is where my work has been, in those far regions."

"The spring..." Legolas imagined legions of orcs, of Men marching on Mirkwood, on Dale and Erebor, advancing inexorably as a landslide.

"The war has already begun. Gondor and Mirkwood were both attacked - now it must be played out, to the end."

"He will punish you for what you have done." The prince thought of what Elgalad had told him.

  
The black head turned, the violet eyes gleaming an ironic half-smile.  
"Yes. He will capture those Elves he can, bear them in shackles to Mordor and one by one, he will tear them apart, before my eyes. Dost thou not think that would be punishment enough, Legolas? He will close the last chink of light out of my soul and there will only be him and darkness – forever."

The words were spoken matter-of-factly, without self-pity, but they chilled Legolas to the core, banishing arousal. It was too final. There were those he loved who might die, his own people of Mirkwood, the Elves of Imladris, Lothlórien, Men who had never served the Dark but fought quietly, stubbornly against it for many generations.

"That cannot happen." He spoke as if to himself, hatred of Sauron deepening his voice. "Damn you, Slave of Sauron, do not tell us we are doomed before that doom falls!"

"What wouldst thou have me say?" The warrior whipped around suddenly, coils of black hair patterning him like living tattoos, tumbling over his shoulders. There were none of the strange designs on his chest or stomach, only toned muscle, rigid with long training, the flat belly, the dark hair at his groin where the narrow hips swept to long legs. Firelight painted the taut sinews, so that he looked like a white statue, but his breast rose and fell with sudden quick breaths and he was hard, proud at his loins where his shaft rose, engorged and dark against the white skin. Legolas jerked his eyes from it, feeling the heat in his cheeks. The violet eyes were hard and cold, seeming to deny his body's flaunting demands.

"Elgalad must go to the Haven's. He must leave Middle-earth, and thou shouldst go with him. It would be a pity," his voice softened, became richer, deeper, a brush of velvet. "to see thee dead, Legolas." The name was lingered over, savored before it left the lips.

"I will not flee!" Legolas felt himself grow warm all over, the chill of the man's stark words of defeat and death submerged under the sensuality of his tone, the eyes, which lost their unfathomable glitter, yet became somehow more personally dangerous. The black crowned head tipped a little to one side, a thoughtful cast to the hard features.  
"Then I wish thee a clean, swift death and were I less of a coward I would give it to thee now."

Legolas knew he challenged, did not know why, only that he felt at the root of his soul that this one would not harm him and he wondered why. What terrible and ancient spell had the Dark Lord woven to so bind this Elf, so unknowable and so dangerous? Legolas felt a threat here, but not of harm.

_ Not so dissimilar at all, _ he thought, remembering a summer long ago, the scent of crushed flowers, grass, the feeling of newborn, alien desire which became helpless terror...He shook his head, and blinked, finding the other suddenly close to him. His expression had changed again, as if he were reading the thoughts, the memories behind Legolas' eyes.

"No." Something which felt like a soft breeze seemed to touch those ancient images, feelings, which were yet so sharp in the wood-Elf's mind.

The lucent eyes caught a flash of red in their center for a moment, then the thick rill of lashes dropped.

"I wonder," he mused, "If I should have taken thee? And yet, from that has come so much. Love, fulfillment...pleasure...Peace, I only saw – enough. So very discourteous to plunder the memories of another, is it not?"

"Yes, it is discourteous, there are things not for sharing!"

Vanimórë looked up again, amused. "Thou dost intrigue me immensely. I wonder if Elgalad would have been as thee had I the leisure and freedom to have kept him? Hush." His voice gentled. "I know the curse of memory, Prince of the Greenwood, the best we can do is to overlay the unbearable with the balm of...better ones." He reached out, slowly, passed his palm over the high cheekbone, fingers smoothing down to cup the back of his neck, a gesture of sympathy, gentleness. "Perhaps I would have taken thee like that, molded thee like that."

And perhaps not. He had been raped, been used as a plaything, a pleasure toy, for him to force those indignities on another would make him no better than Sauron, and Morgoth before him. Yet he understood too, the perpetrator.

_ How our lives score us like clay, even in the brightest light there is darkness. Could I have resisted? I fear I am not that controlled; there would be too much temptation... _

"You did not. And I have come to believe that it was destined to be as it has been." The prince's soft voice was husky, he leaned back a little into the hand which cradled his neck, trusting, as Elgalad was trusting of him. Ironic, Vanimórë thought, was he himself so easy to read? How very...disappointing.

"I like to think I make my own destiny, insofar as I can," he murmured. "Tell him," he whispered into the delicate ear. "that he is fortunate that I showed more compunction that he."

Legolas jerked away, a fine, high colour mantling his face, eyes flashing.  
"You do not know him, do not dare to traduce him, have you ever done as he did?"

"Serving the Dark Lords does tend to negate one's chances of effecting heroic deeds," Vanimórë's eyes briefly danced. "I know _of_ him - and our paths have crossed."  
He stepped behind the prince. "But I think thou wert fortunate, he did give thee pleasure, it is not always thus."  
He felt the Elf go still, refusing to move as he lifted the silken sheaves of hair and let them run like water through his fingers. It bore a faint sweet scent which reminded him of Elgalad, hawthorn after spring rain. His eyes closed as he inhaled, lowered his face into the coolness for a moment.

"It is so easy to take and give nothing, to see a body as something to use, leaving them used and bleeding. Yet who could do that, looking at thee?"

"What did he do to you?"

Vanimórë lifted his head at the question. His hands came to rest on the straight shoulders, feeling the tenseness, the brief shivers.  
"I am only a slave," he said dryly. "Slaves have no feelings, no purpose but the whims of their masters. No doubt that is what thou didst feel for a time, no? A nothing, a whore, fit only to bed. But thy master is a skilled lover, Legolas, and in the end, too fine to merely use thee. I wager he felt, just as I did on seeing thee, wanted to claim thee, to own thee."

"He did claim me. And, if you like, he does own me. And I him!"

"And that was said with pride."

"I am proud of it!" Legolas enunciated with a thrill in his voice. "Once I was ashamed, but that was long ago. I was a child, I knew nothing of what I wanted or needed, and nothing of myself, what I was..."

"Even the thought of him has the power to rouse thee." Vanimórë locked his arms about the slender waist and jerked Legolas back against him, felt the other's indrawn breath as his hand moved down to rest upon the groin, hidden by breeches and tunic, but hard, straining against the constraints, and his own pressed against the princes taut buttocks, rigid, pulsing.

The Elf fought against the vise-like lock which held him and Vanimórë murmured, "Peace. Thou doth know I will not hurt thee. How much of thee did I see in Elgalad? How much of him is in thee? Strange to see him grow to adulthood and _almost_ to see thee, as if the One had given me back the chance I had let slip through my fingers." His palm rubbed against the hidden erection and he felt the shudder, the gasp the flush of heat which rose into the elegant throat.  
"Ai, I envy Glorfindel! Beautiful, and so wanton, thou art. In Sud Sicanna I would have chained thee to my couch with chains of silver steel and gold, for that is what thou art is it not?"

"Let me go!" It was a breathless command and behind him, Vanimórë smiled, one hand still on the hard erection, the other moving up, fingers trailing over the butter-soft doeskin of his chest. They paused, one black brow rose and unseen, he smiled as he traced a circle about the Elf's nipple which bore something hard and round: a ring. He felt the quick shudder.

"_ Truly _ interesting." He moved to the other nipple and dropped his lips to the white throat as he laughed and through it said, "Wanton, thou art, and more responsive than a virgin maid. I could bring thee to pleasure full clothed, I wager. Thy mind is a storm of such..._heated_ thoughts, Legolas. What if I were he? What would thou do for me?"

"I would do anything!" There was desire in the words, love, a proud sense of ownership. Elgalad had sounded as passionate when he declared he was Vanimórë's, belonged to him, and it was sweet beyond life, but no-one could belong to him. _ Slaves own nothing._ Sauron had told him long ago.

And Elgalad had no inkling of what such a thing would mean. Legolas did.

"Doth thou dance, beauty, with a collar about thy neck? Or a slender chain through these, so he may drawn thee to him when thou dost drive him beyond what he can bear and he has to take then, then and there?" He tugged gently at the hidden ring, feeling the staccato gasps his touch evoked.

"N-not for thee." The breathless stumble reminded Vanimórë of Elgalad's sweet stammer.

"Then I will dance for _thee,_ Prince Legolas."

He drew away, walked to the center of the chamber and turned, seeing the Elf flushed and wild-eyed and confused, relieved that he was no longer importuned, yet left yearning for the erotic possession he knew so well. Little wonder, seeing him so hungry and eager, that _ his _ lord wanted him with such passion. The eyes were brilliant under their thick lashes, the beautiful mouth slightly parted, rosy with blood, the thick hair haloing him, backlit by firelight, tousled by the night wind and Vanimórë's hands, his face bright and wild. ~

  
~~~

Golodh - Noldo ( Sindarin)  
Elgalad ( Meluion ) former ward and later lover of Vanimórë in the Dark Prince series.


	2. 'Dance With Me.'

 

  
** "Dance With Me." **

  
~ The fire seemed to pulse like a heart, throwing billows of light over the man and withdrawing to leave shadow as he drew his sword from their housings.  Legolas felt no fear, only a strange anticipation as he watched the warrior fall into a fighters pose, one arm raised, the other held out at his side. The blades were slender, slightly curved and caught the light in silver flashes as he moved on the balls of his feet, as if stretching and warming his muscles before a sparring match.

He paused, and the blades crossing above his head, began to lightly stamp one foot on the floor. The beat seemed to time itself to Legolas' heart, quickening as he moved with a gliding step, turning, sweeping the scimitars across his chest. It was a dance blended with the controlled movements of a warrior, the exercises which facilitated speed and suppleness. For a moment Legolas wondered who the man performed for, and then believed he knew, and there was something wrong in that vision, skewed, as if _his_ lord were to be made to dance for the Dark. Such pride and power should not be forced to humble itself before evil.

Yet there was nothing humble in the warrior who whirled and leaped, the swords slicing shears of light through the air, wrists crossing with a speed that whirled them in silver ribbons down his body. There was no music, but Legolas imagined he could hear it, in the beat of his heart, the hiss of his blood, drums that sounded in the rhythm of loving, the pulse of two bodies joining, unfettered by thought, knowing only need, the surge and sigh toward release. The scent of sandalwood became richer, smoking from white skin delineated by light, by darkness, as the fire burned and the muscles moved and the violet eyes grew brighter, fixed upon Legolas' own.  
It was a chamber in a house in Lake town, spacious enough, of rich-toned woods, thick woolen rugs strewn on the floor, but through it, beyond it, the dancer moved through a vast hall  of smoky pillars, where huge bowls fumed red, glinted bloodily on the chain that ran from his throat. A vision, like those the Elven bards could weave as they sang old lays, or Legolas' own imaginings?

The movement when it came was so swift, he did not know what had happened until the laces of his tunic parted, cut cleanly by one expert flick of a blade. The night-black hair swirled and sank as the dancer knelt and then bent slowly back, until he lay flat upon the rug, looking up, a posture so erotic that the prince felt his mouth become arid. The man raised his arms so that the sword points pierced the doeskin, pushing the tunic back over his shoulders. There it might have stopped, but for the challenge in the eyes, their faint widening, the smile as the action uncovered the Elf's chest and the hoops which pierced each of his nipples.  

The weapons withdrew, the warrior came up to his knees, flowed to his feet, turned, and the blades flicked out again, licked at the rings teasingly with tiny chimes of metal on metal. It was the smallest sensation, but it drove to Legolas' groin like a hot spear and his ripe nipples hardened. As if daring the dancer to speak, he let the tunic slide down his arms to the floor, staring back into the vivid eyes, expecting mockery, a taunt, but the look which ran over him was like the brush of the fire at his back. He saw, with a thrill of nerves,  admiration, lust and seemed to watch a spinning coin, one side gold, one side obsidian, the same coin, the same images, dark, light, familiar, yet unknown.

The warrior, the dancer, the slave, whomever, whatever he was, looked lethal, rich, a roused eagle, caged by this room, adapting the power of his movements to its constricting space. He was still hard; his erection fed by the rush of blood to his loins.

Tiny pinpricks of perspiration bloomed on Legolas' bare chest as he watched the play of muscle, the beauty and deadliness, movements so smoothly controlled that they flowed from one to another, and that also was familiar.

_ Elgalad, what would he think? What would he do were he here? _

He knew, for were this his own lord, he would be weak with need, but Elgalad had never faced this onslaught of sexuality. Legolas had, and knew how devastating it was, how impossible to fight. And this strange warrior-thrall? he could not unleash what he was on Elgalad, take his body, his love, bound as he was to evil. That was the truth of the matter. Legolas was claimed just as surely, but by love.

So was this dance for him, or for the one that could never be owned? Or both?

With an almost languorous twirl, the swords following  him like afterthoughts, the warrior stopped before him.

"Art thou still uncertain, Legolas?" The voice was darkly rich, its lilt reminded the prince of the times he had heard the Dorwinion traders speaking, when they brought their wine up the trade road. There was no striving in it, no breaths of effort. The unnatural eyes dropped to the rings which pierced his nipples and Legolas felt their consideration like a touch.

"There are many mysteries in Middle-earth, but thou...art _truly_ remarkable, beauty." He stepped closer. Heat and perfume emanated from him as his bare chest touched Legolas', and he smiled. Starbursts of white hot heat hardened the nipples to a painful sensitivity, shocked the prince into jerking back, scorched color into his cheeks. There was fire behind him, fire before him, but even as he moved the other span away, a wave of black hair whipped softly across him, obscuring his vision.

As it withdrew, as the warrior came back to face him, the belt of his breeches and laces fell apart. Again he did not see it. The edge of the scimitars must be lethally sharp, yet the severance had been effected  as delicately as a maiden snipping a thread in a tambour frame. Legolas' hands flew to draw them together, remembering another time when his belt had been cut from him, to degrade him, to make him look weak and foolish, some-one without strength who was but a bed-toy of his lord. It had been long ago, but memory was indeed a curse at times, for the humiliation could cast him back to the green-gold of Lothlórien and the mocking eyes of one of its guards.

But then, when his breeches had slipped from him, he had not been erect. His hands could not conceal the tumescence which sprang from the gap in the soft doeskin and chagrin, mingled with a sense of betrayal rose through him. He held his hands over himself, his breathing sounding loud in the sudden silence.

"Is it wrong to feel thus, Legolas? And _I_ do not wish to shame thee. Shame on _me_ for enjoying looking at thee so very, _very_ much. But what a vision thou art!" Laughter lurked in the words, the eyes.

"You must go." The words sounded as if they came from some-one else in the room, some-one whose voice was husky, made them an invitation to remain.

"I will go,"  the warrior agreed and when he turned and walked to the table against the wall, Legolas thought he was indeed preparing to depart. Instead he laid down his blades and reached to where Legolas twin knives rested in their housings, drawing them forth with a soft hiss. Turning, he threw them together end over end, and without thought the prince's hands snapped up and caught the hilts. His breeches peeled away from his loins and he flushed angrily at the ruse even as he watched the other pick up his own weapons again.

"Dance with me," said the warrior. "The dance of the blades, sweet prince!"

  
~~~

  
He was a warrior now. The long knives were a part of him, his catching them had been instinctive, and the man had known that. A test? If this was a test then he would not fail, and this was less dangerous than watching the warrior perform before him. Legolas took a deep breath. To try and hold up his breeches, get another belt from his pack would be unnecessarily foolish, give the other too much of an advantage. He was not ashamed of his body now, but old taunts, old comparisons with maidens came to mind too easily. With a sudden spike of anger he bent, drew of his boots, slid off the leggings and kicked both aside, then fell into the same pose as the warrior, waiting for his move. But the violet eyes caressed him with a look so familiar, so unhurried that his throat closed and that coin spun before him again, _ dark, light._

"Thou art _ beautiful._" The words dipped themselves into sensuality. "He should not let thee from his side. Thou art torn by loves and duties, by thy home, by his home, by blood and birth and an ancient blessing, Legolas. _He_ understands duty, and still, he must prowl like a hungry lion when thou art away from him."

"Do you wish to prove you can beat me? Is this what this is?" Legolas forced himself to shake away the thoughts which poured into his mind. He must not be drawn into the heavy sexuality in the chamber, which made the air feel like the charged silence before a storm

_ He knows what words will stir me, keep me off balance..._

He set his jaw, remembering the old mockeries in Lothlórien, aimed to do just that, to scatter his concentration. Without waiting for an answer, he leaped forward, the knives moving independently, one aimed at the groin, the other the throat.  
There was a clash as the scimitars met them. They held motionless for heartbeats.

"No, prince..._this_ is the dance of blades. Not to best thee, not to test thee. A _ dance._"  He disengaged deliberately, as if he were training Legolas, sparring with him. He slowed each movement: a thrust, a parry, a turn. Reflexively, as if he were back in the days of his youth, the prince flowed with him, met the twin blades with his own.

The wind rose beyond the walls, heavy rain struck the thick-glazed windows, and the sound isolated them from the world; there was only the drum of their hearts, the  motions which made their weapons part of what did become a dance. It drew Legolas into it irresistibly, his own body mirroring the others in a poem of grace, the stretch of sinew, the long glide of muscle, the sweep of hair blue-black and palest gold.

~~~

_If thou didst know my thoughts, prince..._  
The hammer of lust  in his groin was violent. It took all the control learned over long, bitter Ages not to toss the swords aside and tumble Legolas to the rugs, make him want, make him beg...The prince was already roused, was fighting against being roused, from love and from loyalty, but this was no creature of moonbeams and gossamer; under the fair face and form lay a responsiveness which was both sweet and fierce.  
_ I envy both of thee, but thy lord is not one who shares, and by the Hells, nor would I, if thou wert mine. Thou art as Elgalad could have been, if I were not whom_ I _ am. _

The lamp wavered as their dance stirred the air, and the fire, coiling down now, caught Legolas in rosy illumination, winking from the rings which pierced his nipples, brushing over taut muscle, drowned in loose hair as he whirled, silent, smooth and graceful. Vanimórë let his eyes rest on the perfect curve of the buttocks, thought of the pleasure of seeing them before him, ripe and firm as quince fruits, the thighs trembling...

When Legolas turned again, Vanimórë  paused, beat one foot on the rugs, a triple thump, soft against the wool, like a muffled heart. His eyes held the wide blue ones, a curious smile bent one corner of his mouth, and he repeated the movement, span, tapped again, until the soft sounds became a music old and wild, from a time when the Elves danced to the rush and slide of their blood and the pound of their heart.

Legolas stood motionless, his knives held ready to engage the scimitars. Vanimórë whirled behind him and the prince turned with him and into the dance, his own slender feet responding to that primitive beat which became the music of the Elves, the earth, the turning seasons, the storm outside. They came together blades raised, parted, turned away, came back-to-back and Vanimórë felt the hot silk of Legolas' flesh against his own. They parted, spun, swords meeting knives, hips moving, feet keeping time to their increasing heart rate, weaving around one another, before one another, blade-dancers, warriors whose eyes held through the toss of hair.

_ Come to me, beauty..._

And Legolas leaped, turning as he did so in mid air, landing noiseless as thistledown, sliding down the other's hard body, head flung back, arms held like the wings of a hawk taloned with steel, before he came to his knees, looking up.

_ Oh, beautiful! _  
Vanimórë tilted his head, beckoning and the Wood-Elf began the slow ascent, the lithe body rising along the line of the other's until, with a ring of steel on steel the blades met over their heads. Vanimórë felt the pound of the prince's heart, the hard, full nipples and hot metal of their rings against his chest, the erection against his sack, and both pulsed there as they brought the weapons down in a joined arc. Then Vanimórë released his fingers and the scimitars drove into the rugs.

He moved down while the prince stood, tense and quivering, knees bending gradually as his lips passed a whisper away from Legolas' mouth, the hollow of his throat. His breath dusted one of the red nipples, paused a moment, moved lower and lower to the stomach, the hard shaft. He breathed out over the hot flesh, saw the gleam of pearly fluid at its tip, then enclosed it all within his mouth, his hands clasping Legolas' hips.

~~~

There was no music, yet it was there, in the visceral pound of the blood,  the warrior's feet as he stamped, a war-stallion sensing battle, tossing its mane back in challenge. The compelling, hastening beat touched the deep wildness within Legolas, drew him in to the dance of blades. The moves were the controlled and precise actions of battle, slowed to a lazy grace, and even as they quickened, they retained the provocative grace of an exotic dance.  
Legolas did not know how he reflected back the postures, reversed them, spun languidly left or right, or whirled  past and around the warrior so that their hair mingled, their skin almost brushed, or how it became gradually more wild, more dangerous, until they came together and he seductively glided down the tall form to look up and see the violet eyes lambent with need. Still holding his knives straight out, wrists locked he rose as unhurriedly, bringing up his arms  to lie flush against the other's.

He was trembling in tiny bursts, wild eyed, feeling the imprint of the other body, strange yet familiar in his height and strength. Their erections pushed together, tormentingly, and then the warrior let the scimitars fall and slipped down before him, not quite touching, his breath teasing down to the belly where the muscles contracted, down further to where he throbbed, red-hot. Legolas closed his eyes, and then they flared open in shock as he was enclosed by the warm mouth. His hands clenched tight on the knife-hilts – and then they dropped as his fingers sought the the taut-muscled shoulders. He arched his neck...There was no air, nothing but engulfing fire, the sensation of the pressure, the tongue tracing cleft and ridge, the lips sliding over him, drawing tantalizingly away, swallowing him, urging him. Legolas thrust his hips forward, bent his back like a supple Elven bow and exploded in violent release, crying out. His thighs trembled and he throbbed again and again, feeling his essence drawn away and swallowed.

Tremors shook through him from head to heels, he closed his eyes, red and gold light surging behind his lids, hearing the tumult of his blood. He reached out, felt only air, before arms locked around his waist from behind, drew him firmly against a hard body. He let his head tilt back to rest and shuddered, for he was spent but the warrior's hardness was like a bar pushed against the cleft of his buttocks, and he wanted to be taken, deep, stretched, owned, pushed again into the storm of rapture.

"Yes, that _ is _ what pleases thee most is it not?" whispered the voice in his ear. "I can see it, thou wouldst do anything for him, no?" Long fingers traced lightly up the planes of his stomach and chest, described a circle around one nipple, which felt as swollen as his erection had. His breathing hitched on a moan as the ring was tugged, not hard, but firmly enough to bring that burst of pain and pleasure which seemed to spread from them, back to his groin.

"I will not..." he whispered.

"But he made thee want _so much,_ and he is not here...this is a moment struck out of time, Legolas, how else would I be here with thee?" And the other hand rose and softly pulled on the rings until the prince groaned, pressing back against the warrior's tumescence again and again.

"No!" Inside he was aflame and melting, the coin spun before him, gold and jet...

"Thou doth want him, and I will be him, for this night."

Legolas was drawn down to the rugs in the ember glow. He shuddered as the warrior drew away for a moment, then felt the spill of hair over his back, his buttocks, the slow slide of a finger inside him and he tensed, his muscles clenching upon it. It was slick, perhaps with the flax oil the servant had left for the lamp, an invasion, but one he wanted, _needed._ Another stretched it wider and then the hard head of the shaft opened him, and he bit off a whimper of surprise and protest as he felt the slow push inside. His hands clung to the rough wool under him as the warrior paused, tauntingly and Legolas heard the deep, long breaths of desire and slid his thighs apart.

Even so, the thrust dragged a cry from his throat and his head tossed in a flurry of gold, shock and and pain melting into the undertow of pleasure, the fiery waves flooding to his groin, through his nerves.

  
~~~

  
"I want to.... _devour _ thee." Vanimórë heard the feral growl in his own voice as his stroke impaled the Elf who was so tight around him that the fist in his groin clenched itself harder, hotter. More desirable than any trained odalisque of the south, Legolas offered himself to this usage with wanton abandonment.

His fingers flicked the rings which pierced the hard nipples, and Legolas moaned like a Man in a fever-dream, thrusting back to take more. Vanimórë pulled delicately on the mithril hoop as his other hand eased down, feeling the erection begin to fill again against his palm. His thumb circled the rim, the tip, felt the ceaseless quivers shaking Legolas within and without. He drew back and held the slender hips hard as Legolas spread his arms out and down, like an offering before some altar raised to a god of dark desires.

_ Ah, that is how thou dost love it, beauty._ Vanimórë closed his eyes, wanting to ravage, let himself forget, for a while, the blackness which lay ahead when the last lights would wink out. But he forced himself to savor slowly, and even as he felt the prince harden again, he drew back.

"He taught thee much, did he not?" he murmured, and Legolas moved restlessly, the muscles of his arms and back straining. "To feel, to _ want_, want this, to be mastered..." Eyes half lidded, he saw what the prince's lover had so many times, which would still drive him near mad with lust: the cloak of wheaten hair, the strong, beautiful body in this pose of surrender, quivering with hunger.

"Tell me thou doth want me," he whispered and his eyes gleamed with amusement as he heard the breathless, "No!"

"Tell me thou doth want _him,_ within thee, owning thee, filling thee..." On the words he eased in to Legolas body smoothly and felt the clench, heard the rebuttal sobbed through clenched teeth. Each movement brought a counterpoint of demand and protestation.

"Thou doth like this."

" No! "

"He made thee, prince, archer, warrior, and _his._ This is how he loves to see thee, is it not? This is what pleases both of thee..."  
Buried deep, he drew the prince's back flush with his chest, feeling the twinned thunder of their hearts, playing lightly, with the nipple rings, the sensitivity of the hard nubs. His breath dusted over the elegant throat.

"Tell me to stop."

"Stop!" The answer was groaned between Legolas' teeth.

"Tell me again with _conviction._" Vanimórë nipped lightly at the delicate ear, moving back, rocking in, reveling in the flood of feeling which was spurring him to release, and which he reined in brutally to prolong this wild, wild night. He felt the pulse under the pearly skin and purred against it: "If he knows, _when_ he know, he will punish thee, no? And thou wilt love every moment..." He moved again, a little faster, harder, one hand skimming down to grip the prince's erection, his throaty cadences mingling with the panting moans.  
"He will take thee so wholly, so hard, that thou wilt beg him for mercy - and then beg for it never to end ... and he will do this, to thee...and _this_..."

And Legolas cried out, in denial or appeal as he ground himself back and Vanimórë allowed himself finally to abdicate all control as he took the prince, more savagely, more wildly.

"No!"

"But, _yes,_ Legolas, yes!"

Straining, afire, unbound from his chains, Vanimórë took them both upwards, winged with fire, with rapture, to the center of it all, where pain and pleasure become one and crack apart to explode with a force which shakes the soul.

The wind and their surfeited, frantic breaths blended for a long moment and then Vanimórë withdrew, rose to his feet, suffused with a bright, sated glow which ran through him like a draught of hot wine. He lifted Legolas effortlessly and laid him on the bed, his eyes running over the graceful form in its tousled golden hair,  bright eyes shaded by heavy lashes, alabaster skin gleaming with a mist of perspiration. He leaned over, licked the salty sweetness from the nipples, sucked on them, closed his teeth about them and felt the Elf stretch upward as if drawn on a cord, his breathing deepening.

"Hells, thou art made for love!" He moved down, tasted the spilled essence and savored it. His smile, as he lifted his head was like a cat's, replete, knowing.

"Tell him to send thee away, before darkness falls." His fingers ran down the long flanks. "We must all make sacrifices."

The bright, dazzled eyes opened. "He will not flee. Neither will I."

"That much I would wager on."

"What have I done?" Legolas sat up, his face branded by guilt and webbed by strands of wheat-gold hair.

"What hast thou done?" Vanimórë raised his brows. "Nothing, beauty. This is only a dream. It could never be real."  
Leaning forward again, his mouth touched the white brow and he whispered. "Sleep, Legolas – and dream. Dream of what _he_ would do to thee to show thee thou art his, and only his, if this had ever..._truly _ happened."

He watched as the pupils dilated, even the thought roused the prince, and his dreams would be hot with pleasure and pain. But he himself could not linger, his own lord awaited him, a lord so very different to he who owned Legolas. And whom also, was owned by him.

_Sleep..._

Legolas lay back on the pillow, his eyes holding Vanimórë's as they began to grow vague.  
"Who are you?"

Vanimórë straightened, his smile lingering.  
"I am no-one, beauty." He stepped back into the shadows. "I am nothing." ~  

~~~

[The Dance of the Blades, by Esteliel.](http://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?http://www.esteliel.de/pics/erulisse4.jpg)

_Warning: Complete nudity. _

This was bid for by a reader for the Live Journal Help Pakistan fandom auction last year.

  
~~~_Thank you so much for allowing Vanimórë to have some fun with your Legolas, Esteliel. d;-)_

  


  



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